


Consequences

by Keenir



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-14
Updated: 2006-03-14
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keenir/pseuds/Keenir
Summary: Starfleet without Vulcans—isn't that Archer's dream? Malcolm wonders. (10/26/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

Pressing the 'OFF' switch to the comms before he could learn of the Captain's, the Doctor's, Crewman Cutler's, or Chef's fates...Malcolm leaned against the wall. "I've ruined everything," he bemoaned.

"Are you quite certain that this is all you've done?" Q asked.

Malcolm blinked. "What?"

Q started to think that maybe, just maybe, this one wouldn't do as well as Picard might've. "It was a simple enough question." Time would tell.

Malcolm thought it over. "Well, I clearly haven't become a threat to myself, because then—"

"Nothing would happen," Q interupted. "This particular 'anomaly' centers around your individual existance. Without you, there is no alteration in history."

'Alteration'?? "What sort of alteration?" Malcolm asked.

"Patience," Q said. The changes that Reed had made, they would produce a rippling effect in history, like rocks into a pond; this so far had only been an initial ripple. The bigger Ripples were yet to come.

Malcolm leaned more fully against the wall, and waited. When the first Ripple passed through, Malcolm almost fell backwards—there was no more wall behind him.

* * *

"In all things, time replies to events. Sometimes, it takes a while for time to straighten itself out; and in the meantime, seemingly contradictory events may show themselves.

"Starfleet without Vulcans is such a thing.

"But were the Vulcans neccessary?"

—Rodlox.

* * *

He and Q were on the Enterprise bridge.

At least, he thought it was the Enterprise.

The bridge wasn't as well-lit, and there was the faint smell of smoke. Malcolm figured that was why Hoshi was talking with a crewman he didn't recognize. Hoshi and the crewman were speaking—the language, it sounded familiar. "Is that Klingon?" Malcolm asked. Or rather, Hoshi was speaking, and the crewman was pleading.

Hoshi was also dressed in what Malcolm thought was a historical costume. Armor, plating, and padding.

Q nodded, and flicked his fingers...and suddenly Hoshi was speaking Queen's English. "Yet again! Yet again you have proven how greatly you deserve to be leased from this life...or at least this ship," Hoshi growled; thinking of ordering this nincompoop being launched from a missile tube into the depth of space.

"Please," the crewman begged, "please, Sato-sama, don't kill me."

"Like you'd be worth my time or my effort," Hoshi snorted disdainfully, having dismissed her idea.

"I take it this is all a translation?" Malcolm said. Why were these people speaking Klingon?

"Very good," said Q. This one required a bit of enunciating, but then, so did Picard.

"That was the second time you've supposedly fixed that conduit, you targ shit!" The crewman cowered more and more. "Get out of here before you're scraped off my boot-heel!" and the crewman fled off the bridge.

Malcolm caught sight of a familiar face manning the helm: Travis Mayweather. And there, eyes obediently lowered to look only at the instruments—and not at Hoshi chewing out the crewman—was Elizabeth Cutler at Weapons. In a way, it sort of made sense to Reed: 'that which heals can also kill' was an old Reed family phrase.

"We're coming up on the Captain's position," Mayweather reported. "At this speed, we should be there in a few hours."

Hoshi grinned at the thought of the Andorians' surprised looks when another Imperial vessel dropped out of warp around the planet where a 'diplomatic' event was taking place currently.

"Sensors are not detecting any vessels, cloaked or visible," Cutler said, "either around us or the planet."

"The Andorians wouldn't survive any ambush they attempted."

"I take it none of them can see either of us," Malcolm deduced. "But would they notice if I checked something in the ship's computer?"

"It's not like they have an intelligence in the ship," Q said dismissively.

So, with that, Malcolm accessed the historical records...

Without the Vulcans to impede their progress, the Klingon Empire had found Earth...and they'd found Earth in the midst of the Eugenics Wars.

Scary as the prospect was, Malcolm had to admit to himself that it explained the bridge scene: when the Eugenics Wars were starting, Japan was one of a dozen countries who were delving deep into the glories of their military past. And that was a past including women samuri.

It also explained to him how Travis could be here: the Boomers had kept out of the Eugenics Wars, reducing the odds of their portion of human history being altered.

But, as far as Malcolm knew, Hoshi had been born on Earth, raised on Earth. Same for Elizabeth. So how was it possible for either her to be here?

"Captain," Hoshi said, startling Malcolm enough to make him back up and turn around to see the man that Hoshi was talking to. "I trust the Andorians are quivering at your feet by now?"

"So they should be, Commander Sato," the Captain replied. He was a Klingon, no doubt about that. "But they are acting with bravado now that they have a new ally," and he snorted to show what he thought of the ally.

"Like targs, I suspect."

"Worse than targ, Commander. These large-eared claim we are sucking all the galaxy's profit away, and will fight us for it."

Hoshi joined the Captain in laughing. "I'm sure they'll cook well. Shall I bring this warship to meet you?"

"In a day," to which Hoshi gave a proper bow, then capped it with a Klingon Imperial salute. The connection ended.

"The warship Enterprise," Malcolm said to himself.

"Take us out of warp," Hoshi instructed Travis. "I feel like a bath," and left the Bridge.

* * *

"Good and Evil are moral concepts. Neither of them require a person to wear skin-tight leather clothes."

—Rodlox.

* * *

Trip Tucker double-checked the conduit before closing the hatch. He never ceased to be amazed at how often bloodwine helped macgyver something into position. It ranked up there with how many times a fight between crewmembers would result in something needing to be fixed.

Sliding his gloves back on, Trip checked his parka. Klingons liked it cold. Downright icy at times. Down here in Engineering, the only thing that countered the chill of the thermostats was the heat of the engines. So his parka was lying on a nearby pipe...and Trip wanted to be sure that some upstart minor officer hadn't played a prank on him.

Pranks were tolerated by their Klingon Captain and his superiors—so long as the prank was not directed towards the Empire, or even ranking officers. Pranks, that typically Human custom, were a matter of individual leeway. Some Klingons were more forgiving about them than others.

There were just some things about Klingons that Trip never figured he'd understand. Like why the Empire'd flatly forbade all Boomers from becoming engineers.

Trip shrugged. That just meant more engines for him.

As he grinned to himself, his stomach growled. "Looks like end of the shift fer me," Trip said. It was the end of his shift anyways, regardless of what his stomach was doing. "See ya in the Rec Room, Crabby." 'Crabby' was his nickname for one of his Klingon coworkers, one whose name Trip always had trouble with.

Trip left the room, donning his parka, but not zipping up just yet.

He knew a gal back on Earth who sold pure chocolate candy worms on the black market. Trip smiled, remembering how he liked her for more than just her worms.

Onwards to the Mess he went, planning his next shore leave. Whistling to himself, Trip recited a song that always amused the Klingons:

_Nobody likes me,

_Ev'rybody hates me,

_Guess I'll go eat worms..._

Charles Tucker, though he was the son of Charles Tucker the 2nd, was not himself the 3rd. That was his younger brother, who was back on Earth.

* * *

ON the Bridge, once Q had left in a pinprick of bright light, Malcolm started to walk towards the Weapons console. Maybe he could talk to Elizabeth, and find out—

ABRUPTLY, Malcolm found himself in...well, he only knew it was Hoshi's quarters when she entered. But Q was nowhere to be seen.

Malcolm frantically fished for something, anything to say. "Commander," he said, a polite greeting.

Hoshi stopped, the door sliding shut behind her. "Who? Are? You?" she asked. Changing her mind, "No, say nothing to that," and smiled. Taking a step forwards, she touched Malcolm's forehead. "I imagine that hurt," and took a step to one side.

He was in Hoshi's quarters, and Malcolm had to admit to himself that he didn't know what she was talking about.

"Now," Hoshi said curtly; and Malcolm didn't understand—until, moments later, when Riann hurried out of one of the side rooms in Hoshi's quarters, and she began to unlace the armor from around Hoshi. A handmaid, a servant.

"You've come for the bath?" Hoshi asked.

"I—" Malcolm said, remembering her words on the Bridge. He didn't know how much would be authentic Japanese tradition, how much would be Klingon tradition, and how much would be other—from other sources or from changes building up in the timeline. "Thank you for the offer, but I'll have to decline this one."

It looked like Hoshi was getting angry, but the anger fled when Malcolm'd said 'this one'. "That's a quaint uniform you have on," Hoshi said as Riann eased her out of her armor. "Whose is it?"

Malcolm had to swallow his nervousness as best he could, before he could even try to say "My own."

"Aw, how cute," she said, more mocking than adoring. "One of those armies of one."

"At the moment," slipped out of Malcolm's mouth.

Hoshi frowned. "You are not thinking of drafting from my ship." It was not a question.

"Of course not." And the frown left.

By now, Riann had removed the armor overgarments, and now Hoshi had only the midgarments and undergarments left on her person. Despite the temperature being lower than he was used to on Enterprise, Malcolm was starting to sweat.

Breaking away from Riann's servile grasp, "Errrrrrrmmm," Hoshi purred as she circled Malcolm. "I knew Captain Sompek was pleased with my performance," and took another circle 'round Malcolm. "But I didn't think he was this pleased," with a smile that unnerved Malcolm.

He had a feeling that Sompek was the name of the captain that had laughed with Hoshi about how well the Andorians would cook.

"So, tell me, Risan," said Hoshi, "what talents do you have?" The grin grew. "Or am I to find out firsthand?"

'Risan'? Part of Malcolm blushed, part of him felt rediculous. Part of him wondered where in scatland had Q gone. Thinking quickly, Malcolm assured her, "You would be surprised what I can do, Commander. Though, having just gotten here, I am somewhat desirous—of sleep."

Hoshi looked peturbed at that, at first. Then she calmed herself down. "Very well," she said with a nod. "You can have her room," gesturing to Riann.

"And where, may I ask, is the lady going to be sleeping?" Malcolm asked.

"Oh no, she isn't staying with you—" and Riann looked somewhat dejected at that, though it was hard to be sure given her face, "—I want you all to myself."

Malcolm swallowed. "Naturally," he said.

* * *

ON THE BRIDGE, Travis steered with all the skill he possessed. He did his best in all things, always hoping to impress the Commander. A good job was rewarded greatly.

He counted himself as fortunate and lucky that he'd been able to be posted to a ship that didn't have a RDD on board.

RDD. A remote detonation device. Standard issue for all vessels crewed by Boomers, to ensure that the Boomers didn't try any funny business or attempt to sell out or betray the Empire.

Enterprise, being a Klingon vessel, had no RDDs.

There was nothing in the flight path.

Travis Icarus Mayweather didn't look behind him, as he was positive that Cutler was watching him. There were rumors, at least among the humans on Enterprise's crew, saying that Cutler was something not Human, probably not even a member of a known species...

Travis hoped she wasn't going to kill everyone in their sleep.

* * *

INTO the Mess did Trip enter, intending to have some worms and pie.

Looking around for a table to sit at, Trip spied the Old Man sitting by himself...so Trip sat down next to him. "Howya doing, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"I'm fine," replied Archer, nicknamed the 'Old Man' by some human crewman, and the nickname'd stuck. The nickname's source was obvious—the guy was at least twice Trip's age, maybe even thrice it. The only crewmember probably close to his age was Crabby. Even so, Archer was an indispensable part of Trip's staff.

Not ten years after the end of the Eugenics Wars, the Klingons had started showing Humans how to fly starships. How to fix engines, how to steer, galactic diplomacy—Klingon style.

But their warp cores were forever beyond reach. People like this Archer's father—or maybe this Archer, depending upon his age—found themselves out of work, forced to change careers in the middle of their life.

Trip wasn't sure that he himself would've been able to handle something as severe as that, which was part of the reason he respected the Old Man so much. He also felt sorry for the elderly Lieutenant, with no wife or kids, no relatives to mourn him if he died—it just yanked at Trip's heartstrings.

"So," he asked, "you got any plans for your next shore leave?" he asked the Old Man Archer.

* * *

_Tip, tip, tip,_ went the sound behind Malcolm. But every time he turned around, there was nothing there.

So, watching the space behind him, Malcolm slid sideways once he got to an intersection of corridors. _Tip, tip, tip—tip, tip, tip._ And then, Malcolm swung his arm around, gripping tightly once his hand hit flesh.

Looking at the thing, it looked back. The old line 'When you stare into the abyss, the abyss also stares into you' or something like that came to mind; Malcolm shook his head, he'd seen 'THE ABYSS' one too many times...if that was possible.

Cue-ball eyes stared back at him; no eyelids on this critter. It tried to open its mouth, but Malcolm's grip on the neck prevented any jaw motion.

There were insect-like spiracles—breathing holes—running down the alien's side. Into each hole was a plastic tube that ran up to a dark box carried on the shoulders.

"Well hello, Mr. TipToe," Malcolm said. "And just what were you—" and he got a good whiff of it. He recognized the aroma of nitrogen, like freshly-tilled soil with pea plants...and rotten eggs—sulfur. Malcolm remembered from early in his Enterprise's history...

^"I understand there's an inhabited star system three light-years from here,"^ Captain Archer had said.

^Sensors are showing a nitrogen-sulfur atmosphere,"^ he himself had replied with.

^"Probably not humanoid?"^ Hoshi had asked.

But this thing was humanoid...mostly. A stick figure.

Malcolm remembered doing the EVA on the planet, accompanied by Trip and Hoshi. The hillocks that punctuated the landscape were themselves punctuated by narrow holes, burrows. Nothing the three of them had done had been enough to bring any of the natives to the surface.

"Things must've been different here," Malcolm muttered to himself. The feather-shaped shoulderpads fluttered on the scrawny alien. "Why are you following me?" he asked it. The hoof-like feet scrabbled for a grip on the floor, but Malcolm didn't let the creature down far enough for it to try running.

"Did someone order you to?" Malcolm asked. When the scrabbling grew more intense, he looked down—and saw that the alien's legs were elongating. In seconds, the hooves had decent traction on the floor. With that, it stopped scrabbling. "Psycological," Malcolm said to himself. The alien still hadn't replied to him, in any language...unless those scrabbles had been words and phrases. "Can you talk?"

It was like a tyrannosaur in that its arms were itty-bitty short things, tipped with a finger and thumb, each of those had a tiny claw on it. "So, what do you do here?" Malcolm asked as he dragged it along with him to his temporary quarters.

He was tempted to ask it, "And what is going to happen to me?"

* * *

_TWO DAYS LATER:_

He hadn't even been allowed out of these quarters. At regular intervals, Riann would come down, drop off a tray of food, and leave. This morning, Malcolm had tried to talk with her, but she'd just looked terrified at the thought of taking too long.

Malcolm wasn't sure he wanted to know what punishment this timeline's Hoshi was handing out for tardiness.

"Probably trying to make sure I'm sufficiently softened up," Malcolm said to himself during what shipboard clocks recorded as 'afternoon', "ready and waiting for her under-de-cover company."

"It could be worse," Q said, appearing with the usual suddenness of a Q.

"I was wondering if you'd ever show up again," Malcolm said. After dropping Malcolm in Hoshi's quarters, this was the first he'd seen the—what was Q?

Q shrugged in his Malaysian Naval Uniform. "Things to see, people to pull out of trouble," not for the first time wondering if Jean-Luc was worth all this effort.

"Then you have my thanks for showing up at all," Malcolm said. "Can you please take me home now?"

"You are home—on the Enterprise," Q said. "Or perhaps you'd rather see what Earth is like."

"No no nono no!"

"Then...?"

"The timeline where I came from, that home."

"That's something in your hands, not mine," said Q.

Malcolm frowned, thinking. He remembered when Q had said that Malcolm couldn't cause his own non-existance, that all this centered on/with him. "What is that? What can I do?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No. Not to me," Malcolm qualified that statement with.

Q just sat there.

"Come on," Malcolm pleaded with Q. "Surely there's _some_ way that I can undo all this!"

Q thought about that. "There is," he said finally. "But you won't like it."

"Like it or not, I'll do it!" Malcolm said, fully convinced.

Q shrugged. "Do you remember where the Oknalue were holding your fellow crewmembers captive?" Malcolm nodded, it was hard for him to erase the image. "You have to return to that planet." And Q vanished in a spark of pure white light.

* * *

"Each of the Ripples goes further back into time, from the Present Day back to the moment when the altered event had its genesis—in this case, back to the dawns of the Vulcans, Horta, and such. "Each of the Ripples will have greater and greater changes to the overall fabric of history."—Rodlox.

* * *

_AN HOUR LATER:_

"You wanted to see me?" Hoshi asked, sitting on the foot of her bed. Riann had been dismissed for several hours, leaving only Hoshi and Malcolm in the room.

"Aye," Malcolm said. "I have recently remembered a place which would be perfect for what I suspect you have planned," and tried not to swallow nervously.

Hoshi watched him with interest. She'd lowered the room's temperature, a kindness for him; she planned on having him sweat soon enough, she thought with a mental grin.

But, she thought to herself, how dare he presume to know me. "And just what do you suspect I have planned?" Hoshi asked.

"A pairing, a joining of two souls, a melding of two hearts, a merging of—"

Hoshi coughed. "Do I _look_ like an Andorian?" she snapped at him, pounding the mattress with one hand. The rapid motion affected her clothing shift as well, something Malcolm was trying hard not to look at. It was either a nightgown or the strangest cotten under-armor that Malcolm had ever seen.

And it was very thin, whichever one it was.

"My apologies. Professional mistake," Malcolm said, using her assumption to cover his six; though he was _very_ thankful that the real Hoshi (or anyone else he knew)—the one from his timeline—wasn't here to see this.

"Pardoned. This time."

'This time'. Words that held a hardness that his Hoshi's voice had never known.

Malcolm bowed gratitude. "What I was thinking, then, was a world which can satisfy all of your delights."

"Risan, that can happen in this very room." Hoshi was amused rather than threatening, at least. Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief for that much.

_Think_ think _think!_! During that thinking, Malcolm's gaze slipped, sliding down a 'little' bit below Hoshi's chin. "Everest!" he blurted out, the sight and the memory mixing together.

"What?" Hoshi asked. She didn't like being puzzled.

"Individual pleasure can take place in one room, true," Malcolm agreed with her earlier statement. "But on the world of which I am thinking, you can gain treasure for the Empire, honors to add to honors, and so much more."

"Interesting," Hoshi said, mulling the prospect in her mind. "And where is this world of great treasure and honors?" "If you allow, I will point it out on a starchart."

"In a little while. For now...come and sit beside me."

Feeling like the tightrope was getting thinner beneath his feet, Malcolm tried to keep from alienating her, and yet to keep from being a pushover. "Tempting as that is, I am sorry to say that my mind suffers from an ailment—great joy and excitement creates a blanking-out. However much I enjoy my time here, I would not remember the location of the planet later."

Hoshi grimaced, and Malcolm worried that he'd overstepped his bounds.

But Hoshi got up, and walked over to the comm system. "Commander Sato to Command Staff, report to the Situation Room now!" she snarled.

"You can watch," she said as she went to her closet to change back into her uniform.

Malcolm nodded, and when her back was turned, closed his eyes. She wasn't his.

* * *

_SITUATION ROOM:_

The highest-ranking officers were all with the Captain right now, except for Hoshi. That was the main reason there were humans in the room with her and Malcolm.

"I figure it'll take us a few hours to get there," Tucker said once Malcolm had pointed to where the Oknalue world was, "and a few to get back."

"The glory is on the planet's surface, not in orbit," Malcolm said. "Add in to your figures enough time to do what has to be done on the surface." There, truthful more than anyone knew.

"What exactly is down there?" Cutler asked, in a tone that any impartial observer (Q, for instance) would have thought perfectly identical to Malcolm on duty back in his home timeline.

"The last time I was there," Malcolm said, "there were resources beyond my ability to count, being poorly managed by a species that is an insult to the title of 'warriors'." And he hoped that that would be enough.

"The Captain can handle the Andorians for a day longer," Hoshi decided, figuring any outbursts from the Captain would be mollified by the glory which would accrue to the both of them. "Those blue ones never have had any luck in finding allies that could even try threatening the Empire."

"The engines will be fine," Charles Tucker said, grateful that there wasn't going to be a civil war aboard the Enterprise when the Captain returns.

"As will the warp core," said Klaang—a Klingon whose name coincidentally enough was the same as the Klingon who'd been shot on Earth in a farmyard in Malcolm's home timeline.

"As expected," Hoshi said.

"Are there any threats on this planet?" Cutler asked Malcolm.

The Oknalue were gone, Malcolm knew, thanks to his wish. But something else might have claimed the planet..."Not that I know of. Of course, it's been some time since I've had sufficient motive to return there." About a week or less, he figured to himself.

The room's door opened. "Your tea," said Archer, bringing a tray of drinks into the room. Malcolm recognized him, vaguely, from infodumps on the BBC: this man was Captain Jonathan Archer's father...at least, in Malcolm's home timeline.

Tucker nodded; he'd swung his weight around, to get the Old Man a more comfy job. Looks like it'd worked. "Sounds like a fun trip we've got planned," he said.

.~~.tbc. LATER, in the Enterprise Mess Hall:

His arms laden with a tray of what he hoped was food that wouldn't bring forth open revolt in his stomach, Malcolm walked up to a table where Cutler was eating lunch. "You mind if I sit here?" he asked.

"No," was all she said, and said it in a tone that told Malcolm she wouldn't presume to command him.

So, Malcolm sat down, putting his tray on the table; paying no heed to the stares from crewmen at surrounding tables, seeing Cutler and the Commander's new pet sharing a table. "You looking forwards to the planet?" he asked her.

"Curious as to what we might find, yes," Elizabeth replied.

Maybe what he did next was because she did the same job that he'd always done—weapons. Maybe because Elizabeth was a woman who didn't scare him with lethal agressiveness. Maybe, he admitted to himself, it was as simple as the fact that she was there, and didn't seem too psycologically or physically different from the Cutler of his own timeline.

In any event, he told her the truth. Malcolm told Elizabeth, in a hushed voice, about him coming from another timeline. He told Cutler about the differences in the crew of the two timelines—though he left out describing the Vulcans, since he wasn't sure how to describe them.

Malcolm told her everything...except what he hoped to do at the planet. That was his ace in the hole, and he wasn't about to surrender that, willingly or not.

"A Denobulan?" Elizabeth asked, a sour sound in her voice. Disappointment, he guessed. "That's who I'm with in your home?"

"That's whom you're often in the company of," Malcolm said. "I don't know if you're dating him or not."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Then I guess I don't have any more luck in your realm than in this one," Cutler said, "in finding my fiance."

"What's he like?" Malcolm asked. "Maybe I can help," he offered; or at least to help the Cutler of his timeline when he returned there.

She shrugged. "I don't know. My grandfather arranged it," which made sense to Malcolm: arranged marriages could double around the divergence point, promises kept in matchmaking over decades or more. "You're a Reed; do you happen to know anybody named 'Ebeneezer M. Reed'?"

Malcolm didn't go pale, but he also didn't say anything. He hadn't even told the Hoshi of his own timeline that 'Malcolm' was his middle name. "I'll see what I can do," Malcolm squeaked out.

What he didn't say was: and here I had always thought that it was purely coincidence that your name was the same as the girl that my grandmother had told me I was promised to.

Cutler nodded. "Thanks. It means a lot to me."

He didn't doubt it. And though lunch passed quickly enough, every bite seemed to take a long time in passing; objective vs subjective time. .~~.

_MUCH LATER: ON THE PLANET:_

They had just stepped out of the shuttlepods, and Malcolm wondered whether Tucker or the Klingon had been the last one to take an actual shower. He waited just long enough for the perimeter to have been secured, with a confirmation of no aliens in the area. Then...

"I hate to be the one to break this to you, Mister Tucker," Malcolm said to the officer who'd been tasked with keeping a close eye on Malcolm, "but your prongs are untied."

Charles Tucker looked down at his feet, hoping that the guy was wrong about the Imperial-issued pointy things on his combat boots.

Malcolm knocked the gun out of Tucker's hands, and bowled him over; and Malcolm took off running, away from the group.

"Commander!" Charles shouted upon hitting the ground. He knew he was going to be punished for letting the guy get the best of him, but at least Charles wasn't compounding his error by letting the Brit get a running start advantage over everyone else.

"After him!" Hoshi shouted as Malcolm entered the jungle. Unlike an Earth jungle, there were no smooth treetrunks or bare patches of bark—this jungle was one of weeds, and armored weeds at that; well-protected plant life.

Nobody fired a phase pistol, out of fear of inciting their Commander's wrath.

"Don't kill him!" Hoshi commanded her crew. "But if you have to wound him, I won't complain."

Malcolm swallowed, and convinced his feet to move faster. Sharp psuedo-leaves grated and sliced his skin, pains that he did his best to ignore for now, putting them aside for later. Reed fully expected to emerge from this fiasco either in a miserable sobbing heap, or perfectly fine...depending on if fixing the timeline also repaired one's body.

Run. Run. Run. Dodging the scattered phase pistol blasts, Malcolm knew better than to weave back and forth—such behavior would only have allowed his chasers to catch up to him, and he did not want that.

Malcolm emerged from the jungleweeds, and was now in the clearing where all this trouble had started. There, only a few paces in front of him, was the monument which had granted his wishes.

Standing next to it, was Q.

"What now?" Malcolm asked Q.

"Now shoot it," Q said.

"Just shoot it?" Malcolm asked.

"Shoot it, bulldoze it, tear it to pieces with your bare hands, I don't care." Q paused. "But you should hurry: your new friends are approaching."

Malcolm took aim, and started to squeeze the trigger. But then he remembered...++Eating in the mess hall with Hoshi. Enjoying her company. Talking with her. Laughing over some mutual misunderstanding.++

That historical version of Hoshi Sato would be killed by the Oknalue, and there would be nothing he could do about it. OR, he could keep that Hoshi from ever existing, and thus ever being killed by the Oknalue.

Just as this timeline's Hoshi barged into the clearing, Malcolm decided.


End file.
